


intervention fer yer weird obsession

by foxkillskat



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Body Image, Body Worship, Confessions, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, MSBY Black Jackals - Freeform, Mild Language, No Sex, Obsession, Partial Nudity, Post-Time Skip, SakuAtsu, Touching, but got dang is this spicy, no beta we die like daichi, nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:08:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28464351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxkillskat/pseuds/foxkillskat
Summary: Miya Atsumu is not obsessed with Sakusa Kiyoomi’s moles.That would be weird.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 24
Kudos: 446





	intervention fer yer weird obsession

**Author's Note:**

> hey yall, its yer (least) fave redneck, foxkillskat, slappin ya in the face with some sakuatsu fer the end of the year 
> 
> whats that sayin again?? pretty sure it goes somethin like: one mans imperfection is another mans obsession
> 
> well, im here to share my obsession with ya!!! enjoy the mess!

Atsumu is not obsessed. His curiosity is perfectly normal, perfectly justified. It’s not like he woke up one day and decided to pay attention. Very close attention. No — if anything, he didn’t decide at all. They made up his mind for him, sneaking up on him little by little until, before he knew it, he was interested. Intrigued, even.

But Miya Atsumu is not obsessed with Sakusa Kiyoomi’s moles. That would be weird.

Still, when Sakusa props his knee on the bench to lean across to his locker, Atsumu loses his shit.

“Omi-kun! Your foot!” His big mouth betrays him, and he can’t help but point at the mark, small and dark, dotting the arch of Sakusa’s left foot.

“Huh?” Sakusa’s eyebrows scrunch together, carrying the two little moles on his forehead with them. He leans over, back arching in a way that’s far too flexible for Atsumu to process, and examines his foot.

“It’s just a mole,” he says before standing back straight.

Just a mole. Atsumu can’t stop gawking at it, the way it stands out so plainly on that blanched canvas. His mouth hangs open all the way up until Sakusa tugs on a sock.

“You can get those on yer feet?” Atsumu didn’t know this. He never thought to know this.

Sakusa just gives him a look. “You can get moles anywhere, you idiot.”

Anywhere. The word slaps him in the face and sticks in his brain.

“How many ya got?” he asks, all casual-like.

Wrong question.

Sakusa’s eyes narrow into a deadly glare. He’s gonna tell Atsumu to fuck off; he can feel it coming.

“Seven.” Sakusa shuts his locker and hoists his bag up on his shoulder.

Atsumu’s brain sputters, leaving him with a single coherent thought.

“Seven’s a lucky number.” It’s _his_ lucky number.

Sakusa shakes his head all the way to the exit. “Fuck off, Miya.”

Atsumu smirks. Anywhere, huh?

——

Four. That’s how many Atsumu’s counted thus far. The two on Sakusa’s forehead, the one on his foot, and the one on his lower back, sitting a good distance above the waistband of his shorts. That one is put on display every time Sakusa goes deep into a stretch, fingers hovering parallel to the floor well past the end of his toes. It may or may not have piqued Atsumu’s interest months ago. Who’s to say?

Back then he didn’t have a number to give it, he didn’t have a goal — not like he does now. He dubs it ‘four’ and begins a reconnaissance mission to find the remaining three.

Atsumu watches like a hawk, on the lookout for those little moments, the ones where any bit of Sakusa’s flesh is on display. He’s focusing even more intently than usual as Sakusa does his freaky stretches. He’s eyeing the gaps between clothes and skin when Sakusa flies into a spike. Atsumu’s even breaking the number one rule of the locker room: don’t stare. To be fair, it’s more like he’s peeking, stealing a glance every time there’s no one around to catch him. No one except Sakusa himself, that is.

Atsumu’s sidetracked by a little piece of lint stuck in Sakusa’s shower-damp curls when he gets caught.

One by one, their teammates trickle out, but Sakusa sits there on the bench, hands shoved in his pockets and mask up. He’s there when Atsumu bolts for the shower and he’s there when he returns, still as a statue, glaring. He doesn’t stop. Not even when Atsumu drops his towel and tugs on his shorts.

“Somethin’ wrong, Omi-Omi?” He shakes the wrinkles out of his balled-up shirt. “Yer kinda freakin’ me out.”

“Oh, so you don’t like being watched, huh?” Sakusa pulls off his mask and crumples it in his fist with a huff. “You’d rather be the one staring, is that it?”

“Don’t know what yer talkin’ ‘bout.” Atsumu turns to face his locker and yanks on his shirt. His face is hot, and he kills time rifling through the mess of clothes and towels and discarded protein bar wrappers, trying to find his cool.

“Yes. You. Do.” The grit of Sakusa’s teeth is audible.

Atsumu spins around. “Ya got some lint in yer hair, okay?”

The glare drops, but suspicion remains.

“Right there.” Atsumu points to the little white piece of fuzz near the tip of Sakusa’s ear, thankful for it.

Sakusa pulls back from his offending finger and starts combing through the curl, careful to keep its shape.

That’s when Atsumu sees it. Not the lint — that’s long gone. Right behind Sakusa’s left ear, usually obscured by the thick, dark curls, is a mole no more than a few millimeters in size. Atsumu’s won the lottery.

“Did I get it?” Sakusa’s hair falls back into place and the mark is hidden once more.

Atsumu wasn’t done.

“Um, no,” the lie stumbles out. “Here, let me help ya!”

Before Sakusa can flee Atsumu is upon him, pulling back that curtain of hair as gently as he can with his shaky fingers. He doesn’t stare long —only a few milliseconds— but it feels like a lifetime when he’s finally finished mapping the exact coordinates of number five.

“Miya,” Sakusa’s voice pulls him from his calculations. “What are you doing?”

Every word is stiff, rigid, sharp. Atsumu drops the curl and takes a step back before he’s pierced through.

“Got it,” he manages.

“Give it to me.” Sakusa holds out his hand.

“No—” Atsumu’s brain scrambles for words. “It’s dirty. I’m throwin’ it away.”

He makes a big show of it, too, pinching the imaginary lint between his thumb and forefinger, sauntering all the way to the end of the lockers to toss it in the bin.

“You are so weird today.” Sakusa rises from the bench. “You’re driving me insane.”

“No, you,” Atsumu blurts out.

Sakusa stops at the corner and turns around slowly. “What.”

Shit.

Atsumu bites his tongue. He should tell Sakusa he’s the weird one. True enough, except he hasn’t done anything out of the ordinary today. Atsumu would know — he’s been watching. No way in hell is he gonna fess up to the truth, though. Sakusa doesn’t need to know — he’ll kill him if he so much as mutters, “Yer moles are drivin’ me crazy.”

Sakusa’s eyes go wide. 

Shit. Shit.

His hand flies up to that spot on his head, exactly two centimeters from the back of his ear and one down from the top, confirming it as number five of seven.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Sakusa’s face goes bright red. He’s gonna yell, or maybe even scream. Atsumu should say something, anything. 

He should apologize, for starters. “I—”

Sakusa raises a hand.

“Shut up,” he barks. Then he blinks the longest blink in the history of blinking. “I’m going to pretend you did not just say that.”

“But I did.” Atsumu should really shut up. But he’s in too deep and he can’t stop digging, not when he’s so invested, so close.

He lifts his foot over the shovel and stomps it in.

“I meant it.”

Sakusa crosses his arms. “What exactly do you want from me?”

“Show me,” he pleads. “I wanna see them. All seven of ‘em.”

Atsumu didn’t know Sakusa’s cheeks could get this red. He never thought to know this.

“You’re insane,” Sakusa flares. “They’re just moles. Imperfections. Why are you so obsessed with them?”

It occurs to Atsumu maybe he is obsessed. No — that can’t be. He’s only curious, perfectly normal considering he has none of his own to look at.

“Can I see them?” he asks again. “Then I’ll leave ya alone, I swear.”

“No.” Sakusa shoves his hands back in the pockets of his jacket. “No way.”

He doesn’t leave, though, and this alone is enough to spur Atsumu on.

“Please, Omi-kun.” He’s ready to get down on his hands and knees; he would do it, too. “I’ll do anythin’.”

“This is our workplace, for fuck’s sake,” Sakusa hisses. “I’m not showing you anything.”

“What’s the big deal? You said it yerself; they’re just moles,” Atsumu reasons. “And I’ve already seen five of ‘em. Two more is all I’m askin’ fer.”

Sakusa swallows. Hard.

“Come on, Omi—”

“Fine,” he snaps, voice high. “But not here.”

Atsumu doesn’t believe his luck.

“And you have to swear you’ll never bring this up again, never speak of it to anyone, never even think about it afterwards.”

“I swear!” Atsumu doesn’t know about that last one.

“My place. Seven. And you had better shower before you even think about setting foot in my apartment.”

“But I just—”

“Again.” Sakusa takes no excuse. “If you don’t, you can kiss this chance goodbye.”

Atsumu can only nod and Sakusa doesn’t even stay to see it. He’s gone so fast, Atsumu has to ask himself if this really happened, if he’s really going to finish his collection.

Collection. 

Atsumu snorts at his brain’s choice of word. He’s beginning to sound a little crazy, a little like someone who is obsessed.

Good thing he’s not.

——

“Your hair’s not wet,” is the first thing Sakusa says to him when he opens the door.

“Nice to see ya again, too,” Atsumu mouths off.

Sakusa shuts the door in his face.

“Omiiiii,” he whines as he knocks again. “Come on! Lemme in!”

The door opens a crack and one dark eye peers out. “Shut up. I have neighbors.”

“I showered, I promise,” Atsumu insists. “It’s too cold to be walkin’ around with wet hair so I blow dried it, okay?”

And styled it and used a little spritz of that stuff his mom gave him last Christmas. “It’s not perfume,” she tried to justify to him as if there was some difference just because it went in your hair. She was right about it smelling nice, though, like fresh-squeezed oranges.

Sakusa opens the door and steps back. “Leave your shoes there” —he points to a rack housing shoes for every possible activity— “and your coat there” —he gestures to an overflowing coat rack hung with outerwear for every type of weather— “and wash your hands in the sink. Thoroughly.”

Atsumu already knows the drill; he’s been here a few times with various team members to watch games and discuss matches, even once for a movie night. Sakusa’s one of the few with an apartment to himself, no family or roommates to be bothered by their noise. Plus, his place is actually clean, unlike Shouyou’s apartment.

Sakusa stands there at the edge of the kitchen, arms crossed, inspecting Atsumu’s hand washing.

After the requisite twenty seconds, plus some extra for good measure, he pats them dry and holds them out, palms up, for approval. “Up to yer standards?”

To Atsumu’s surprise, Sakusa reaches out and touches them, lining up fingertip to fingertip. His contact is light, barely there, and Atsumu can’t help but feel like he’s being tested. He doesn’t dare move, even as Sakusa goes further, sliding his fingers into Atsumu’s palms before nudging them over to study his knuckles. When he pulls away, he leaves Atsumu wavering midair.

“I suppose so.” Sakusa’s eyes are cloudy and dark, and the two little moles on his forehead bounce with a twitch of his brow.

“Where do ya wanna do this?” Atsumu doesn’t even try to be patient. He’s running low on that.

“Come.” Sakusa turns on his heel and leads him out of the kitchen toward the living room. He doesn’t stop there like Atsumu expected. Instead, he continues down the hall right into his bedroom.

Atsumu’s never been here before — he’s never been allowed. Everyone knows anything past the bathroom is off limits. Atsumu throws a nervous glance over his shoulder, like the real Sakusa will show up any moment and kick both him and this imposter out.

“Sit.” Sakusa delivers another one-word command and gestures to a sitting chair in the corner opposite the bed, nestled between a bookshelf and a floor lamp.

Atsumu does as he’s told.

“Omi-kun, just outta curiosity, why are we in yer bedroom?”

Sakusa stands there in the center of the room and crosses his arms, a pained frown on his face. “Do you really expect me to strip in my living room?”

Atsumu chokes on a swallow. “Strip?”

Anywhere. The word comes back full force, threatening to slap him right out of the chair.

Sakusa just sighs, indifferent to it all. “Let’s get this over with.”

Atsumu nods, more than eager.

With that, Sakusa pushes his curls off his forehead. “One, two.” Then he kicks off his slipper, turns around, and lifts his foot for half a second. “Three.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Atsumu’s mouth catches up to his brain. “Slow down a little, will ya?”

“No,” Sakusa says over his shoulder, hands already reaching for the hem of his shirt.

“If I don’t see ‘em properly, what’s the point?” Atsumu cries.

Sakusa drops his shirt. “You’ve already seen these five.”

“Omi-kun, please. I want” —Atsumu grips the arms of the chair— “I need to see them right. All of ‘em.”

“Closer,” he tacks on. “Slower.”

There’s a thick moment of silence.

“Fine,” Sakusa speaks to the wall, and next thing Atsumu knows, he’s dragging in one of the stools from the kitchen bar counter and planting it directly across from him.

Sakusa sits and stares him in the face, their knees nearly touching. “One and two. Tell me when you’re done.”

Atsumu leans forward and releases his pleased grin. He won’t need long for these — he’s spent years of his life staring at them, marveling at their symmetry. But that doesn’t mean he wants to rush.

“How do ya think they got to be in a perfect line like that, huh?” he asks.

Sakusa’s lip twitches, but only for a split second before it’s back in its scowl. “I didn’t say you could comment.”

“This is my only chance, remember?” Atsumu raises a brow. “Then yer makin’ me wipe my brain.”

Sakusa props his elbow on his knee and his chin on his hand, bringing him and his perfect moles closer. If Atsumu reaches out, he could touch them. His hand aches for it.

Sakusa wrinkles his nose like he can smell Atsumu’s desperation.

“You can” —Sakusa’s internal debate ends with a sigh— “touch them if you want.”

Atsumu holds perfectly still. He might not even be breathing. “Are ya sure?” 

“Do it before I change my mind.” 

He doesn’t need further invitation to give in to his want, to do the unthinkable, to touch the untouchable. Sakusa’s eyes squeeze shut as Atsumu traces a path from one to two with the pad of his thumb. The little marks are raised, barely, and warm as the surrounding skin. Atsumu didn’t know prickly Sakusa could be this soft, this satisfying. He never thought to know this.

And now Atsumu can’t stop knowing this. His thumb continues on, trailing down to one furrowed brow and following along its edge all the way to the worry line bunched between it and the other. Atsumu presses on it lightly until it becomes pliable, flattening out and losing all tension. Satisfied, he pulls back and Sakusa’s eyes flutter open, fixing him with an indecipherable stare.

“Three, please.” Atsumu grins.

Sakusa doesn’t announce it this time. He scoots back to the edge of the stool and hefts his bare foot into Atsumu’s lap.

“Yer not ticklish, are ya?” Atsumu wags his brows playfully.

“No, but if you try, I’ll kick you.”

Atsumu believes him. With the firm grip of both hands, he takes hold of Sakusa’s foot and earns a gasp which makes him freeze.

“Too hard?” he asks, stashing away the echo of it in his brain for later.

Sakusa shakes his head but grips the edges of the stool. “Continue.”

Atsumu does as he’s told. There’s something weirdly intimate about this, about the way he digs his thumbs into Sakusa’s flesh, hitting as many pressure points as he can while he works his way toward the small mole. Slowly but surely, he reaches it, finding it more prominent than he expected, but velvety to the touch. Atsumu can’t resist circling it with the tip of his thumb.

Sakusa emits a noise of distress and jerks his leg, wobbling precariously on the stool. Acting on instinct, Atsumu clamps down, one hand on Sakusa’s foot and the other holding tight to the solid muscle of his calf. He doesn’t let go until Sakusa is stabilized.

“Not ticklish, huh?” Atsumu snorts.

“Only when I’m not being ticked.” Sakusa scowls half-heartedly and returns his foot to the floor.

“Four?” Atsumu requests, “the one on yer back.”

Like a switch has flipped, Sakusa speeds up again, swiveling around on the stool and yanking his shirt over his head as unceremoniously as possible. Once he’s in position, though, he slams to a halt. Good thing. Atsumu takes his sweet time with this one, granting himself free reign to drag his gaze over the muscular plane of Sakusa’s back. The mole waits for him; it won’t stray from that ideal spot, equal distance from both Sakusa’s hip and his tailbone.

Before long, Sakusa peers over his shoulder, eyebrow pulled high. “Are you going to touch me?”

“Do ya want me to?” Atsumu wants to hear Sakusa say it; he wants to hear it wanted, welcomed, needed.

Sakusa only nods, but Atsumu isn’t ready to give up.

“Do you like this?” He slides his index finger all the way down the bumpy curve of Sakusa’s spine, turning back at the waistband of his lounge pants. “Tell me, Omi-Omi.”

Sakusa doesn’t say a word, but his back arches ever so slightly. It’s certainly not a no.

“You do, don’t ya?” Atsumu should really shut up.

Sakusa hangs his head and shifts on the stool, moving in a way that guides Atsumu’s hand towards its destination, forcing him back on the right path. Like the last, this mole is different up close, beneath his fingertips. Without the obscenely deep stretch of Sakusa’s back, Atsumu finds it less intimidating. It welcomes him in, and he makes himself at home, sinking his fingers into Sakusa’s flesh like he belongs there. 

“I like this one,” he declares. “I like how it pulls tight when yer reachin’ fer yer toes, how it peeks out from under yer shirt.”

Sakusa’s eye is back, peering at him over the rigid muscle of his shoulder. 

“I know you watch me when I stretch,” he says, words slow and deliberate. “I feel your eyes on me.”

Atsumu lets out a soft chuckle. “And here I thought I was sneaky.”

Sakusa doesn’t laugh. He turns around slowly on the stool and Atsumu’s fingers drag with him all the way to the handhold of his hip. As he lets go, Sakusa catches his hand and pulls it up into the soft curls by his ear.

“Five,” Sakusa announces, voice low and breathy as he tilts his head to the side.

Atsumu strokes his hair, combing it back piece by piece to reveal the mole he discovered only hours back. Hours — he can’t comprehend it. A year could have passed since then and he wouldn’t know it. Time moves differently here in Sakusa’s bedroom, where the yellowed light from the floor lamp casts shadows the locker room’s fluorescent bulbs would envy. 

“I can’t believe this one’s been hidin’ in plain sight the whole time.” Atsumu smiles to himself.

Compared to the others, it’s darker, as black as the hair that shields it, and Atsumu’s hit with the urge to do more than touch, to press a kiss to this exact spot. He forces himself to hold still until it passes.

As if he could read Atsumu’s mind, Sakusa lifts his head back straight and returns Atsumu’s hand to him by the wrist.

“Why are you so interested in them?” He’s searching in Atsumu’s eyes, looking for something.

Atsumu feels exposed, like he’s the one stripping down. “They’re just so—”

He can’t find the right word. Nothing fits. Nothing suits them the way he wants it to. They’re so unique to Sakusa, as much him as he them, both one in the same in Atsumu’s mind.

“—you,” he settles on.

Sakusa squints and purses his lips. He sniffs, then sniffs again, nose twitching. “You smell like oranges.”

Atsumu is suddenly self-conscious. “S’that bad?”

“Reminds me of stainless-steel polish.”

“Oh.” Atsumu presses his lips together to hold back his frown.

Sakusa’s eyes dig a little deeper into him. “I like it.”

And now Atsumu’s grinning stupidly. Of course Sakusa would like it. Thanks mom.

Oblivious to Atsumu’s inner monologue, Sakusa stands and hooks both thumbs into the waistband of his lounge pants. He’s staring at something, nothing, with his gaze lowered to the floor, posing exactly like one of those male models with their perfect bodies and their stormy faces. Hell, Sakusa would best every one of them, all moody and contemplative like this.

“Where’s the next one?” Atsumu finds the courage to ask. “Number six.”

Sakusa’s eyes shoot up. “Do you remember what you swore?”

Atsumu nods, and with it Sakusa slides his pants down until he steps free of them, leg by leg. When he sits back on the stool, he props his right leg open and hooks a finger in the hem of his boxer briefs. One centimeter after another he pulls them aside, exposing the stark white skin of his inner thigh all the way to the line of his hip. And there it is: a light brown mole the size of the tip of Atsumu’s pinky, nestled in this secret place he never would have found on his own.

“Oh.” Atsumu’s breath catches in his throat.

Sakusa’s eyes flash and he tugs the material back into place. “Oh?”

“That was a good oh.” Atsumu does his best to look Sakusa in the face, but his gaze keeps sliding back to number six, or the place where six sits out of sight. 

“Can I touch?” He shouldn’t even be asking this.

Sakusa’s lips draw a tight line. “I don’t know.”

Atsumu wants to plead and whine until he gets his way, but this is a lot — he knows this. He never thought to know this, to know so much of Sakusa only to find he wants more and more and more. This curiosity, this hunger of his should already be sated, but he’s grown more ravenous than ever before. There has to be a stopping point, an end to it all.

“If yer not comfortable, it’s okay.” Atsumu folds his hands in his lap to quiet their twitching. “You’ve already indulged my weird request too much, Omi-kun.”

“I don’t understand it.” Sakusa frowns. “Is this some sort of fetish?”

“What? No.” Atsumu laughs, then pauses. “At least, I don’t think so. How would I know?”

“Are you turned on right now?” The way Sakusa asks makes him feel guilty.

“Now yer makin’ it weird.” 

“Answer me.”

“Yeah, a little, okay?” Atsumu can’t lie under Sakusa’s intrusive gaze; he’ll know. “You would be too if ya were sittin’ in my place, watchin’ yerself undress all slow, doin’ those model poses. And yer lettin’ me touch ya and it’s—”

Atsumu’s face is red from all the word vomiting; he can feel the heat of it, the way his pulse throbs at his temples. He should really shut up.

“Goddamn,” he continues. “It’s a lot fer me, okay?”

To his surprise, Sakusa laughs. Even more shocking is it’s not some snarky little ‘heh.’ It’s a real, full laugh, and Atsumu likes the sound of it even though he doesn’t get the joke.

“You’re not obsessed with my moles.” Sakusa reins himself back in with a smirk. “You’re obsessed with me.”

“Am not.” Atsumu crosses his arms. Again, with this obsession thing. Real funny.

“Are too.”

“Show me yer seventh one,” he changes the subject, throwing away all previous resolve.

“Please?” Sakusa is power drunk now. 

What has Atsumu done?

“Yer killin me Omi-kun,” he whines. “You already skimped me on the last one and then made fun of me. Aren’t ya done abusin’ me yet?”

Sakusa raises one, unsympathetic brow.

“Pretty please.” Atsumu gives in, but not without a little sass.

“Too late.”

“No, no!” he yelps, backtracking. “I’ll do anythin’. Just please, show me. I’ll die if I don’t see it.”

“You’ll die, huh?” Sakusa’s brow comes up again, this time in interest. “Do you even hear yourself begging, Miya?”

“Please do not call me that right now.” Atsumu squeezes his eyes shut, willing ‘Samu not to ruin this for him, not to laugh at him too. He doesn’t think he can take anymore. 

Atsumu stays like this for a long moment, clearing out his brain until it’s quiet and dark.

“Atsumu,” Sakusa calls him back, his name like soft music from that usually sharp mouth. “Look at me, Atsumu.”

Atsumu does as he’s told, opening his eyes to a wondrous sight. Sakusa sits arched back on the stool with his feet propped on the crossbars, both legs spread wide. He has the thin fabric of his underwear hitched up high to expose his left leg in its entirety, and Atsumu absolutely devours it with his eyes. He consumes each and every centimeter of flesh from Sakusa’s knee all the way up to that light brown mole, snug in the muscle of his inner thigh. At first, Atsumu thinks this is a second look at number six, but no—.

This is seven.

“Yer kiddin’ me.” His hands lift off the chair on their own and he has to force them back down with a slam. 

There he holds tight to that desperate lifeline, begging it to keep him. He sure as hell can’t keep himself. Not when seven is a perfect copy of six, and Atsumu can imagine they meet, pressing, touching, kissing each other when Sakusa’s thighs come together.

“Is it... is it in the same spot?” Atsumu wants confirmation. He needs confirmation. “Are they symmetrical?”

Sakusa nods and swallows. “Do you like that?”

Does Atsumu like that? What a ridiculous question. What an awful, heart-stopping, mind-breaking question.

Atsumu covers his eyes with his hand, digging his thumb and his middle finger into a temple each. This does nothing to stop him from seeing it, seeing the image of Sakusa Kiyoomi on display with those symmetric, beautiful moles dotting the most hidden parts of his thick, muscular thighs. Atsumu can’t breathe. He’s doubled over, bending, breaking beneath the weight of it all.

“Atsumu?” Sakusa’s concern is tangible, crashing over Atsumu in thunderous waves, but only the smallest drops are trickling through to his thick mind.

“I—” Atsumu digs in deeper. “I need a moment.”

He needs more than a moment. He needs a lifetime. A lifetime of looking at Sakusa, a lifetime of charting out every centimeter of his flesh, a lifetime of pressing his own curious, desperate fingers into just the right spots to hear that divine gasp. 

No — fuck a lifetime.

Atsumu needs an eternity. Only an eternity could be a long enough intervention for his debilitating obsession.

“Why” —he sucks in a shaky breath— “are you so perfect?”

With air in his lungs, he’s coming to, breaking free of that incapacitating mental fog. But even though he can think again, he can’t stop shielding his eyes. He’s afraid he’ll go right back, and chances are he would stay.

“I think you broke me,” he adds with the huff of a laugh which doesn’t belong to him. He doesn’t recognize his voice either. Atsumu never knew he could change like this, become a new person so suddenly, so definitively. He never thought to know this.

Sakusa doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t say anything for so long. Atsumu can hear him shifting on the stool, concealing number seven, hiding it away. Thinking it safe, he peeks through his fingers to find Sakusa hunched over, blinking hard and fast in a battle with watery eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Atsumu’s hand falls away. “Is it what I said?”

Sakusa looks to the ground and scrunches up his face.

“Omi-kun.” Atsumu wants to reach out, but his arms won’t move. Now they want to respect the rules, huh?

“I’m sorry fer makin’ you upset,” he tries, unsure what else to say. He can’t take back his words in good conscience. He won’t do it.

“Don’t apologize.” Sakusa inhales, long and slow until the lines of his face flatten out. “I just don’t understand it.”

“Understand what?”

“They’re imperfections.” He still won’t look at Atsumu. “They don’t belong.”

“That’s not true,” Atsumu tries to argue, but it goes unheard.

“When I was younger, I used to hate them. I used to try and scrub them away.” Sakusa wraps himself with one arm while the other holds tight to the stool. “I literally begged my doctor to remove them, but they weren’t cancerous, so he refused.”

Sakusa swallows.

“They felt like cancer.”

Atsumu bites his tongue to keep hold of his objection.

“At some point, I accepted them, but I never liked them,” Sakusa admits. “I still don’t. And I can’t understand why you do.”

“I love ‘em. I know my opinion doesn’t change anythin’, but I do.” Atsumu can’t keep quiet any longer; he can’t lie to himself anymore. “I’m obsessed with them.”

“But why?” Sakusa demands, fists clenching.

“I told you why!” Atsumu can’t stand it. 

He grabs those fists and starts pulling them apart, finger by finger. Each one fights him, but Sakusa doesn’t try to break from his grasp.

“I love ‘em because they’re you.” Atsumu squeezes Sakusa’s palms. “I’m obsessed with them because I’m obsessed with you.”

Sakusa’s dark eyes slide up to meet his, cloudier than ever and charged with lightning.

“I know ya think I’m weird, or maybe even crazy, but so what if I am?” Atsumu grows bold in the face of this storm. “I wanna look at them so I can look at ya, I wanna touch ‘em so I can touch you, I wanna kiss them so I can—”

Sakusa pulls his hands back, eyes wide, and Atsumu should really shut up, but he’s so incredibly close.

“I want to kiss you,” he admits. “Every part of you.”

They’re silent, staring each other down with an unspoken dare. Atsumu won’t break. He has to hear Sakusa say it this time; he has to hear it wanted, welcomed, needed.

Sakusa doesn’t say a word. He slides off the stool and into Atsumu’s space, knee sinking deep into the cushion between Atsumu’s legs. And then he’s leaning in with those stormy eyes, unseen hand twisting in Atsumu’s hair, inciting their collision. 

Their lips move together in all the right ways, and when Sakusa opens up to share tongue and teeth, Atsumu can’t help but think he was too eager, too unprepared for that eternity. Fuck — he won’t even make it a lifetime. He’s going to die right here, right now, buried in this chair beneath the one and only Sakusa Kiyoomi and his seven perfect moles.

Atsumu has never been so lucky.


End file.
